And I'm certain the critic will pause,
And excuse, for the sake of my bird,
My sins against critical laws --
The slips in the thought and the word.
And haply some dear little face
Of his own to his mind will occur --
Some Persia who brightens his place --
And I'll be forgiven for her.
A life that is turning to grey
Has hardly been happy, you see;
But the rose that has dropped on my way
Is morning and music to me.
Yea, she that I hold by the hand
Is changing white winter to green,
And making a light of the land --
All fathers will know what I mean:
All women and men who have known
The sickness of sorrow and sin,
Will feel -- having babes of their own --
My verse and the pathos therein.
For that must be touching which shows
How a life has been led from the wild
To a garden of glitter and rose,
By the flower-like hand of a child.
She is strange to this wonderful sphere;
One summer and winter have set
Since God left her radiance here --
Her sweet second year is not yet.
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